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I was reading an article last night about fathers and sons, and memories came flooding back of the time I took my son out for his first drink.
Off we went to our local bar, which is only two blocks from the house.
I got him a Miller Genuine. He didn't like it – so I drank it.

Then I got him an Old Style, he didn't like it either, so I drank it.

It was the same with the Coors and the Bud.

By the time we got down to the Irish whiskey,
I could hardly push the stroller back home.
 
When my son graduated from high school, he had to give a speech. He began by reading from his prepared text.
'I want to talk about my mother and the wonderful influence she has had on my life,' he told the audience. 'She is a shining example of parenthood, and I love her more than words could ever do justice.'
At this point he seemed to struggle for words. After a pause, he looked up with a sly grin and said, 'Sorry, but it's really hard to read my mother's handwriting.'
 
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